The whole garden resounds
with the silence of the rain.
Where have the blackbirds gone?

Tearful trees miss their song.
Crows look like thieves
and morning glory grieves.

They were birds in quest of Light.
They’ve been flying for a long time.
They’re dancing at the gates of Dawn.

But we have no reason to be sad.
To have dreams is to have wings:
now it’s our turn to sing.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Roses bloom, roses fade.
No comment.

People lie, angels cry.
No comment.

Sometimes it’s a dark Night, but God is always right.
No comment.

Dreams die, and so will I.
No comment.

Worlds disappear and so do words.
No comment.

Yet Love remains.
No comment.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

jolie journée d’été
ciel étoilé
petites flammes
âmes qui dansent

espoirs déçus
leçons reçues
larmes de joie
lames de fond

le rivage et la mer
la vie, le ciel
tant de lumière
beaucoup nous est donné

mais le temps est compté
alors vraiment
il faut se souvenir
se souvenir d’aimer

© Frédéric Georges Martin

CIMG4519

They walked without any precise goal
and were guided through the right steps.

They asked no question
and got many Answers.

They could easily read the Message
because they gave up breaking the Bottle.

That is how Pilgrims of Silence
cracked the Secret of the Sea.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Playa de Cofete (Fuerteventura) © 2016 – F.G.M.

Claude Monet, The House at Giverny Viewed from the Rose Garden (1922-1924)

My garden, my friend,
I won’t go away
without saying farewell
without thanking you.

The old cherry tree knows much
about hope and gratitude,
and I’ll certainly learn from its knotted branches
one last lesson of patience and fortitude.

I smile to the white butterfly
flying in the blue light of bliss:
wildflowers seeds will ever stay
under the magic spell of Summer winds,

but I know I’m going to leave you
without looking back,
for no flower has ever grown
from a gardener’s tear.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration : la maison vue du jardin aux roses,  Claude Monet (1922-1924)

Berthe Morisot, the Garden at Bougival (1884)

Le jour où nous partirons enfin
une dernière fois
j’irai faire le tour du jardin.

J’irai toucher l’écorce du vieux cerisier,
l’heure sera venue
de gentiment le remercier,

à l’oiseau chanteur je confierai une prière
qu’il portera dans le ciel bleu
et peut-être jusqu’à Dieu,

puisse notre nouvelle vie
être plus belle encore
qu’elle fut ici.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

illustration : le Jardin à Bougival, Berthe Morisot (1884)